


Four is Good Company

by ElephantKhaleesi



Series: please don't run with swords [1]
Category: Les Trois Mousquetaires | The Three Musketeers - Alexandre Dumas, The Three Musketeers (2011), The Three Musketeers - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Milady de Winter is mentioned - Freeform, Mild Angst, Multi, No Condom, Polyamory, Sexual Content, but only in name, follows the book most closely but i definitely changed some stuff, theres sex but its not described in minute detail, wasn't sure to tag as mature or explicit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-30
Updated: 2018-03-30
Packaged: 2019-04-14 19:06:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14142594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElephantKhaleesi/pseuds/ElephantKhaleesi
Summary: Athos was not, by any means, an impulsive man. Rare was the day that he let the blood rush to his head and spew out his mouth.It was alarming then, to d’Artagnan who knew Athos well, but not for very long, that when the untimely subject of Milady deWinter was brought up, he watched his oldest, wisest companion draw back and snap, like a cornered wolf.





	Four is Good Company

**Author's Note:**

> Tag Notes:  
> There is some sexually explicit content, between four consenting adults in a sexual, romantic, polyamorous relationship; as the nature of the situations are vague or brief there is no reference to the very necessary processes of preperation or lube or protection, and for the purposes of this fic it can be assumed that the first two were completed/used but as all they had back in the ye olden days was animal intestines for condoms, which I personally find very unsexy, no protection in the form of condoms were used. Therefore, they are in an open fluid relationship as well.
> 
> World Building Notes:  
> Some basic world building notes for this story; it's still set in the canon era, however there's no mention of canon era homophobia or polyphobia, nor do they attempt to hide their relationship so to speak from the public. In this, Lady deWinter was a criminal who married Athos for his money, once his brother realized who she was and confronted her she killed him to protect her identity, and from there her identity was revealed anyway and she was hung for the murder of Athos' brother and her past crimes. Obviously it didn't stick, and she's still doing weird spy shit. None of the servants are mentioned because honestly I didn't want to bother with the damn names, so you can infer that they don't exist or are all on holiday. They all live in the same residence, although Athos, Porthos, and Aramis all have their own rooms (d'Artagnan does not, as they purchased the property before they met him). Constance and her husband are not mentioned either, so again, don't exist or are on holiday.

Athos was not, by any means, an impulsive man. Rare was the day that he let the blood rush to his head and spew out his mouth. Each word that escaped from the strongbox of his lips was weighed, measured, evaluated, and dissected with a critical eye. Athos was not a hot-blooded young man. Athos was, for all intents and purposes, old. His hair while, thankfully, retaining its thickness and volume, had begun to show the beginnings of grey; although Aramis who was by all accounts his senior had nary a single strand that had begun to belie his age, Aramis insists it is Athos’ disposition that has caused his age to show so, but Athos is of the mind that Aramis takes far more time, and far more coin, ensuring he looks not a day above 5 and 20. Crows feet had begun to stamp at the corner of his eyes, and even at his most stoic, there are creases beginning around his mouth that account of his happy days, of his hours filled with laughter. His hands are strong and bear the markings of time as well, they are rough and calloused, certainly not the hands that should belong to a wealthy noble. He is not as old as he appears, he has barely taken a full step into his third decade, yet he carries himself like an old man. He feels like an old man. 

There are times he feels young, when he is with his friends and enjoying a fine meal, why then he feels as spry as sweet d’Artagnan. Age is not all bad either, when he handles a rapier and his callouses press into the bite of the metal, he does not miss the days when the edges of the hilt caught and dragged open the smooth of his skin. He has earned his age, through battle and sorrow and happiness alike. He cannot bear to look upon it with anything but a gentle fondness, no matter the way Aramis tuts like a hen when he sees the ragged state of Athos’ fingernails, or his brow furrows as he traces the start of grey at his temple. He is lucky that Aramis has his hands so full with Porthos state of appearance, who happily lets Aramis fuss, and that d’Artagnan is never short of compliments at all the good his aging distinguishes him. He could only imagine, waking up one morning to have found that Aramis had dyed his hair with ink and charcoal, and bathed his hands in imported oil. A disaster surely. 

Athos was slow and careful, his mind worked with the efficiency of a steel trap, and nearly nothing escaped his notice. His dearest friends always took complicated matters to him both first and last, seeking his guidance and never being led astray by it. There are nights, whole hours of the dark, spent with Athos in silence; he’ll sit in quiet contemplation, not speaking his thoughts aloud or commenting to his friends on the burdens of his mind, sometimes just watching his friends with nothing on his mind at all. Aramis has no matter with this, he spends these nights reading and regarding the precious quiet with a near religious reverence. Porthos was less appreciative of these nights, but his years spent by Athos’ side have long made him accustomed to them; they are some of the only times when his mouth is not wagging, and no sound is emanating from his person. He spends these nights napping, leaned against Aramis’ side as he reads, or occasionally slumped against Athos himself. d'Artagnan, unfortunately, has no such tolerance for these nights. Too young and full of the spirit of life to spend time unoccupied, he fidgets like a child being chastised, twiddles his thumbs, and tries his hardest to remain still and noiseless for Athos. Oftentimes he will last an hour, maybe two, before Athos takes pity on him and begins a conversation for him to partake in; only begins, however, he leaves Aramis, Porthos, and d’Artagnan to partake and enjoy, but he will remain silent for its entirety. There are also times, when Athos is not in a mood to alleviate d’Artagnan’s strain, and d’Artagnan is fit to burst, that Porthos will awaken, always in the nick of time, and draw his youngest friend to him. From there they will retreat upstairs and converse, or adventure out into the night to play a few coins or find a brawl to partake in. 

It was alarming then, to d’Artagnan who knew Athos well, but not for very long, that when the untimely subject of Milady deWinter was brought up, he watched his oldest, wisest companion draw back and snap, like a cornered wolf. d’Artagnan said nothing, he stayed off to the side of the, now lively, discussion and tried to keep his disconcern in check. Athos was not a hot-blooded young man who let his mouth yap, and he certainly did not start an avoidable battle. When Athos’ hand drops to his rapier, d’Artagnan, who knew the beginnings of a street brawl well, could very well not believe it himself when, for perhaps the very first time in his life, he was the one to interfere and try to separate the men. Athos paid him no heed, shook off the hold d’Artagnan had on his arm, and drew his blade with the determination of a stubborn man. d’Artagnan, sweet, confused d’Artagnan tried once again to stop this battle that sprung up out of the seams of the cobblestone, and was thrown onto his bottom a foot or so away for his trouble. d’Artagnan, who loved his friends dearly, and sometimes couldn’t help but think his love of Athos was dearest of all, was quick tempered and saw insult in the most inconsequential of slights. He stood quickly, and could tell without looking that his bum was dusty; there was a heat in his cheeks, and, with the frenzy of a man who did not know what was happening, only that his pride was assaulted, drew his own rapier. Athos turned to him with a look in his eye that spoke of the hell d’Artagnan was to pay for this later, drew his own sword, and his companion with whom he was in such passionate disagreement, drew his own at the sight of two capable swordsmen with weapons at the ready. 

There was a beat when no one was quite sure who was to start what, then Athos huffed; hufffed! d’Artagnan was sure to faint at all this untoward behavior from his Athos, and lunged towards his sweaty handed aggressor, disarming him instantly. The man’s hands jerked up in fear and he dropped to his knees, begging for mercy. Athos’ face twisted in disgust and he kicked the man onto his side, before turning with a sternness in his eye towards d’Artagnan. 

“You will put your sword away, boy. And you will go home.” 

Now d’Artagnan loved Athos deeply, and he was quite sure Athos loved him just as deeply, but d’Artagnan was a young man, whose blood boiled at the shift of the wind, and who learned his stubbornness and perseverance from Athos himself, who was, in both aspects, an authority. He tightened his grip on his rapier, and lifted it to Athos’ chest. 

He lost, handedly, and quickly, but lasted much longer than the man who still lied curled on his side, whimpering. d’Artagnan did not whimper; or at least, did not do so when facing an opponent. He was on his back, sword flung halfway down the street, Athos’ rapier pressed unforgivingly to his chest. Athos stepped closer, and drew the sword up to the base of d’Artagnan’s throat, then pressed it steadily into the flesh there. His breath caught, and it hurt, but d’Artagnan did not whimper, he ground his teeth and glared directly into Athos’s eyes. d’Artagnan had always had a singularly unique ability to bring a smile to Athos’ face, and did so now. It was fond, and d’Artagnan would daresay a bit proud, and he cursed the way it made him want to knock his head under the curve of Athos’ jaw. He wasn’t about to beg for forgiveness, he was much too young for that. Athos pulled back his sword and offered a hand to d’Artagnan, who took it with reluctance, but could tell from the way his legs wobbled slightly as he righted himself, that he would have fallen if he tried alone. Athos did not hurt him, but d’Artagnan rarely met blades with a swordsman better than himself, and his heart pattered away in his chest with the fear that only one’s own mortality can incite. Athos drew d’Artagnan towards his chest, and held him in a one armed embrace for a moment, leaning to his ear to tell him once again to go home, and collect his rapier on the way. 

d’Artagnan bit his lip indignantly, he was not a child to be sent home. It chafed that d’Artagnan was the youngest of his friends, and even Porthos, who was but 8 and 20, had nearly a decade on him. He could not help but feel humored at times by them, but he straightened his back and did as he was told. 

Athos watched him all the way, as he retrieved his sword from where it had landed down the street, and as he turned his back and walked, alone, home. 

When he arrived, he burst forth through the door, Aramis and Porthos’ names on his lips and carrying through their house. The two in question were not available, but were neither unavailable, and as d’Artagnan bolted up the stairs to the second landing, they tried, in vain, to separate themselves. When d’Artagnan burst forth once again through Porthos’ bedroom door, it was to the sight of the man kneeling in the v of Aramis’ thighs, cockhead still buried in his ass. d’Artagnan huffed, then couldn’t help but wonder whether Athos picked the trait up from himself, and threw himself on the bed in exhaustion. The fight was small, but he felt drained all the same from it. He languished on the bed, and told his friends the tale. Porthos had the expression of one listening avidly, but his hips pistoned in a way that belied his act, and Aramis did not look like he was listening at all, but interjected every now and then in d’Artagnan’s retelling with a question or comment of his own. 

At the end of it, when d’Artagnan was finished with his story, and Porthos was finished in Aramis, they both drew d’Artagnan towards them. Aramis pet d’Artagnan’s hair and entreated him to have patience, and let Athos chose his own time and place to explain, that pushing the matter would have reverse effects. Porthos mumbled his agreement, then inquired as to what they were talking about. By the time d’Artagnan, with the help of Aramis, had once again retold his tale, Aramis was finishing in d’Artagnan.

It was about this time that d’Artagnan, drowsy with exhaustion from the emotional and physical labor of the day, curled up and slept. Porthos humored him and stripped him of his remaining clothes, then washed him down with a wet rag, removing the dust and seed from his body. Aramis watched him with a careful, considering eye. When they were sure their youngest friend had succumbed to the night, Aramis and Porthos discussed the happenings of the day with their heads close together and in hushed tones. The presence of Milady deWinter, even just in name and not in body, was worrisome indeed. They conversed on the matter so long in fact, that it felt like barely any time at all before the front door was thrown open carelessly, and the sounds of a drunk man tripping over nothing and falling to the ground echoed throughout their home. Aramis sighed and patted Porthos shoulder, telling him that he should stay and watch over d’Artagnan for now. Only one of them had to suffer tonight. 

He went down to collect Athos, whose breath stunk like bad liquor and smoke, and could barely lift his own head upright. It was a miracle that saw him home to them. He heaved his friend up and all but carried him up the stairs, his legs protesting the weight the whole way. He bypassed Porthos’ room, where d’Artagnan slept, his youngest friend had no need to see Athos in such a state. Aramis threw him in his own room instead, watched the man tiredly as he stumbled his way to the bed before collapsing upon it in a heap. He did his best to disrobe him, a process much more fraught with struggle than it had been with d’Artagnan, who could be as foul as a wet cat but rarely acted more out of turn than a sightless kitten with his friends. Athos, it seemed, was determined to resist the proceedings, and fought tooth and nail to keep his stained and odorous clothes on. After managing to get his jacket and shoes off, Aramis gave up and doused the lamp, resigning himself to sleeping next to a cankerous and filthy drunk.

In the morning, Athos awoke to the painful sound of Porthos’ bed frame slamming rhythmically into the wall. When he opened his eyes, he closed them just as quickly to block out the sting of light. His head throbbed and his mouth tasted of death. He wearily got up, shedding his old clothes disgustedly as he trekked across the hall to Porthos’ room, stopping to lay a kiss on Aramis’ brow and whisper his gratitude into the crown of his hair. He pushed the ajar door open all the way, and even through the pain of his post boozy haze, could appreciate the sight of Porthos opening d’Artagnan with his cock. Athos sat on the edge of the bed and gently guided Porthos’ hips to a gentler pace, the incessant pounding of the headboard ceasing finally. 

He appreciated the silence for but a moment before d’Artagnan began to whine, like a dog denied a treat. Athos smiled, then placed his hand firmly over d’Artagnan’s mouth, muffling the throaty, desperate whimpers, and saving his head some of the trouble. He tightened his grip briefly, and informed d’Artagnan that unless he wanted a spanking later that he’d best be quiet for Athos and Porthos. He watched, with much amusement in his eyes, as d’Artagnan weighed both options and chose the one he wanted. He quieted, but with a petulant lick over the palm of Athos’ hand, who jerked it away in disgust. Such a child, was d’Artagnan when he wanted to be. The wafting odor from his under clothes finally caught up to him, and he felt the contents of his stomach turn, before he hastily stripped himself of his few remaining garments. He climbed back on the bed, turned to his side and watched d’Artagnan try his hardest to stay silent, and Porthos try his hardest to force him into noise. By the time d’Artagnan stifled his cry by biting into the meat of his hand, as he finished all over his own belly, Athos was nearly gone to the waking world. He fell back to sleep, and d’Artagnan, who was still being opened by Porthos thrusts, at the sight of Athos asleep, began to become drowsy again too. Neither stayed awake to see Porthos finish; but when they woke again it was to just each other, and the dried, sticky remains of Porthos seed across them both. 

d’Artagnan, who had finished over himself already, was a positive mess, and groaned in despair once he realized what Porthos had done. He began to sit up, but Athos stopped him with a hand on his chest, carefully placed above the majority of the soil, and pushed him steadily back down. He leaned over sweet d’Artagnan, with a wicked gleam in his eye, and told him that he was halfway through, and soldiers must stay true to their missions. Athos straddled d’Artagnan, and took himself in hand. The friction was unpleasant, but the thought of adding his own claim to the mess on his belly was more than enough to make up for the initial sting of his callouses. He completed, and laughed heartily at the scowl that crossed d’Artagnan’s face, when his seed splattered over his chest and mixed with Porthos’. He leaned down and pressed his lips to d’Artagnan’s face, and ordered him to stay.

He returned in a moment or two’s time, with Aramis and Porthos in tow, having collected them from the sitting room where they were enjoying the company of a fine bottle of wine and a warm loaf of bread. They spent the rest of the day as such, taking turns dirtying each other. d'Artagnan was an awful mess by the time they had all wound down, and his three dear friends were not much better. Athos twisted to press a kiss into d’Artagnan’s hair, and the movement sent seed trickling down the inside of his thighs. Aramis, who was petting Porthos hair, gave him a long look, before telling him what a sap he was. Athos agreed with a nod of his head, then inquired how angry their youngest friend was yesterday. A twinkle shown in Aramis’ eyes and he laughed, softly in account for the sleeping d'Artagnan and Porthos. Athos may have distracted them all well enough, but it was not enough to make them forget completely. 

“You will have to talk to him.”

Athos groaned at Aramis and responded, “Perhaps, but not anytime soon if I can do anything about it.”

He turned a smile onto Aramis, then reaching a decision, climbed over their two sleeping friends, and kissed him. After a moment of this, Aramis came to a decision as well, and they surrendered themselves to pleasure once more.

d’Artagnan nearly forgot about the whole Milady de Winter fiasco, and it would have settled into the banks of his memory, for all intents and purposes, lost, if not for an incident a week later. He found himself, and his friends, who he found himself increasingly attached to, as one was never far at all from another, playing coins at a table. Drunk on good ale, and the good company of Athos, Aramis, and Porthos, d’Artagnan was happy and quite silly with it all. Porthos, laughing, had pulled him aside and entreated him to go outside and get a sharp burst of the October air, when his cheeks began to flush an alarming red, and hiccups started to erupt from him. He put on a front, but internally agreed, the room was quickly becoming sweltering, a heat box filled with smoke and amiable shouting, and he was feeling dizzy with it all.

The air outside was indeed a cure for the beginnings of his unpleasantness, and he blissfully took his time, leaned against a street post and breathing deeply. Unfortunately for Athos, d’Artagnan was at a perfect distance from a rowdy group across the way, to hear all of what they were saying. They group of men spoke loudly, with the confidence of men in numbers. Of what, at first, d’Artagnan could not tell, but the longer he stood there, head clearing with the crisp, night air, the more he understood of their conversation. One word in particular, d’Artagnan heard as finely as if it were spoken directly into his ear, and at it, all the giddy warmth fled his body and his lips pursed down into a frown. de Winter was a name he had nearly forgotten he’d ever heard at all. Somehow he couldn't muster any surprise at its reappearance, it felt like he was remembering something he should have never forgot in the first place, and, unlike the first time he was introduced to the name of Milady de Winter, he did not forget again. In truth, the name stuck to the center of his back, an itch he couldn’t scratch, and at all times he was aware of it, and aware of how quickly Athos had been to move on from it. 

He let it lie for a few days past, and when Athos was out with Aramis, easily the most devious of his friends, and the most likely to make the matter disappear, either by the steady distraction of his hands or by a more literal escape out the window, both of which were known to happen from time to time, d’Artagnan cornered Porthos in the kitchen. 

Now Porthos was a fine man; strong as an ox and as impatient as a bull. A dashing fellow, vain only in his clothing, who had a certain empty air about him (in the sense that he was strong man, with deep voice, and a steady speech; and many took this as a reflection of his intelligence) that he often used to his advantage. There was not a woman or man in the entirety of Europe whom Porthos could not charm, and manipulate, out of their purse. While Aramis usually took, and gladly mind you, the title of the group’s dashing lover, it was Porthos who benefited from it most greatly. One could spot the deviant in Aramis at a distance, but could only see the same in Porthos after he had helped himself to their burdenous wealth. He was also incredibly weak for his friends, and could almost never deny them anything. If Athos wished for peace and quiet, Porthos acquiesced, even though it went against his nature. If Aramis wanted the last dregs of wine, Porthos would gladly fill his glass up, even if he’d had not a drop from the bottle. If d’Artagnan, sweet, young d’Artagnan, with his gentle naivete and quick temper, wanted Porthos to spill the secrets Athos’ past, then Porthos, against his very will, was compelled to tell. 

He tried not to, God did he try, but d’Artagnan turned his face up towards Porthos, eyes wet with what he prayed weren’t tears, and asked Porthos who Milady de Winter was, and Porthos could not have resisted if Athos himself had a sword to his throat. Being not a complete idiot, just a fool for his friends, Porthos told d’Artagnan only who she was, and not who she was to Athos, or who she had been. That is the scene Aramis and Athos walked into, arms laden with groceries, Porthos, face pinched and pained, explaining to d’Artagnan that Milady de Winter was, “an Englishwoman that frequents the French courts, and is rumored to be a spy of great skill, who reports to members of the utmost authority, although who exactly has never quite been clear.” 

d’Artagnan’s face drew tight and pinched, a reflection of what he saw in Porthos’ own face, as he was deeply unsatisfied with the answer. He was tempted to ask again, but Aramis cleared his throat loudly, and d’Artagnan, while known for being brash, had enough tact to refrain from enquiring more. He took some groceries from Athos arms, and both of them avoided looking at each others face. 

This was the state of affairs he sat on, uncomfortably and impatiently, until he could learn more. Athos, sensing that his youngest friend had an itch he wouldn’t rest until scratched, avoided d’Artagnan admirably for the course of two whole weeks. A miracle truly, as the two were never far apart, and spent a good majority of each other’s time together. Athos was not sure he would have been able to keep d’Artagnan’s burning curiosity at bay, if it were not for the assistance of his Porthos and Aramis, who did well to keep their youngest friend either too occupied to speak, or too occupied to listen. All good things must meet their end, however, and it is so that Athos found himself alone and cornered, outside the office of one M. de Treville. 

He sighed deeply, and before d'Artagnan could expel the questions that had been building up inside his chest for two weeks, and rested heavily and eagerly upon his tongue, Athos gestured forward, and led d’Artagnan onward. And so it was that two musketeers, a wealthy veteran nobleman and a poor, boyish swordsman walked through the busy, cacophonous streets of Paris, their conversation washed away amongst the chatter. 

Athos told the story of his dead wife,and long lasting mistakes of his youth. He described in detail a young, foolish man who fell in love with a woman who never existed, and he at length discussed her murder which was, to that day, one of the heaviest burdens to rest on his heart. 

d’Artagnan bore it well, and held his tongue even when he burned with his desire to interject, knowing that this did not come easy to Athos, and that allowing his friend to take his own pace was the least he could do.

Athos feared at first that d’Artagnan would react to his past with a jealous vitriol, as news of half dead, once loved, and still mourned wives does not tend to evoke calm or level headed responses, two defining traits that d’Artagnan could not claim to have on a good day; but unexpectedly, d’Artagnan’s face pinched up with some manner of displeased emotion, but he did not voice his thoughts on the matter. In fact, he did not say much throughout Athos’ story or much after Athos finished, quiet and contemplative in a way wholly unlike himself.

When they reached their residence, Athos was trying desperately to reign in his discomfit at d’Artagnan’s manner, and to keep that unease off his face. They paused just inside their home, d’Artagnan taking unusual care to shut it softly behind him, and Athos found his feat leadened down to the floor, unable to even shuffle awkwardly. d’Artagnan seemed to take a moment to gather his words, an actual look of pensiveness on his face that was making Athos feel vaguely ill, before saying that he was not angry and there was nothing to be angry for. d’Artagnan watched with some small delight as his friend’s face twitched as he visibly held himself back from commenting on that, before continuing on to explain that while it was obvious Athos still felt some measure of love for his wife, d’Artagnan could not begrudge him that for he loved a woman who never really existed, and who died years ago, the night Athos’ brother perished, and Milady de Winter was born. 

At that Aramis appeared, in the disturbingly quiet and sudden way he tends to, and clasped Athos by the back of his neck and shook him playfully, teasing at Athos for expecting the worse. d’Artagnan laughed at that, and the three sat around their table, settling down for some bread and stew, waiting for Porthos to return from his day of coins. When Porthos did join them, it was bearing two fine bottles of wine, and bright cheeked from a good night of gambling. 

When the four of them turned in that evening, d’Artagnan ensured that, for a few hours at least, Athos would forget the name Milady de Winter entirely, a feat made easy with the aid of Aramis and Porthos, who gathered d'Artagnan's plan quickly, and extrapolated from there.

By the time night took the four, they were sated, and drowsy, and senselessly happy to be together.

**Author's Note:**

> I know there are a few errors/irritants in this, there are several instances of the same word being used multiple times in a paragraph, google docs refused to cooperate on some of the names (i prefer the spelling deWinter, it preferred de Winter, etc.), and this really wasn't edited with a fine toothed comb, but I hope you could still enjoy it anyway, despite its flaws.
> 
> This may be continued in future installments, which would probably be about fun adventure or spy stuff, some deWinter stuff, some more domestic bliss, and like maybe an angsty little piece on Aramis fathering one of the royal children.


End file.
